


The Ring

by OpenUniverse



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mystery, but only a lil bit, god this is a weird one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23641756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenUniverse/pseuds/OpenUniverse
Summary: Cecil Palmer finds a ring attached to his finger one day while at work, and the answers he uncovers while trying to remove it may be more than he can handle.
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

The radio studio, a dull room of wires and recording equipment, sits within a stout building on this particular evening. The sunset outside rages ferocious vermillion, streaked with a golden gilding that burns at the sight of it. The saturated orange pulses cooler and warmer, changing hue to violet then green, an array of color that confuses the eyes faster than the brain can think. The sunlight, eclipsed by the strobe light clouds, bathes the building in a light that can be felt even down to the soul (because some people probably have those).  
The studio itself, however, has no windows, so this beauty is lost on the radio host, who is languidly working on this fine evening. The wallpaper around, a gaudy paisley of olive greens and beiges, bleeds. A dark purple reminiscent of cough syrup and twice as thick bulges from beneath the paper, turning the cream and forest walls to lilac and a shade of brown new to human eyes. It occurs to the radio host that maybe the paint beneath the wallpaper was a mistake on station management's part, but he kept this thought to himself and kept working.  
Yellow light beams down from the ceiling, illuminating the paperwork beneath him. Ink stained hands move over the script for tomorrow’s show, though he knows there is no real reason to triple check his own writing. The show tends to shift into whatever it wants about half way through, breaking news reports and the like a 7:30 usual. The papers detail the weather forecast for the next week, as well as warnings that need to broadcasted semi regularly to citizens, sales going on throughout the various Nightvale shops, and small notes left by his desk by station management. The notes from management tend to make his head hurt when he reads them, as they are covered in a strange language and drenched in what smells like kerosene and chloroform. With a nervous hand, he almost immediately balls up the note and throws it in the trash, but not before trying to read the note; there was no telling about the contents of the sticky note, it could be anything from a shopping list in braille to an accidental death threat in mycenaean greek. This, however, was nothing more than a collection of scribbled lines in metallic glitter pen that smelled strongly of rubbing alcohol, and into the trash it went.  
On the glint of the warm light, a ring shines on the host’s finger. It isn’t the gleaming silver of a wedding ring (that sits on his other hand), it is green. Beneath the layer of lichen lime that coats the ring, a warm toned copper fits snug against his middle finger, worn from years of wear. The pink pen in his hand bounces against the desk as he goes to inspect the ring more closely. He wraps two calloused fingers around it, it is rough to the touch. His knuckle releases a sickening pop as he yanks the brassen trinket from his skin, only to find that it won’t budge. His hands, relatively lanky and boney, do not appear to be able to keep it from coming off. In fact, it dangles slightly from him, allowing him to see the pallid skin beneath that appears to not have been exposed to sunlight in quite some time. Upon seeing this, he cannot recall putting the ring on in the first place, let alone ever owning it. He picks at the metal, chipping away at the green to reveal a strange inscription of scratches that he cannot read.  
It’s not that the words are in a different language or that it confuses him, for he can read it perfectly. He could recognize the letters individually. When trying to put those letters together to form a word, he became overcome by a migraine. The light from the ceiling sears into him, his head lays against the desk gently, his hands cupping his field of vision to block it out. It failed to help as the eyes that faze across his body blink into and out of existence without a thought to the light’s effects. As sweat slicks down his temples, the taught wrapping of ‘skin’ across his form turns cold in the heat of the sensation. Pain, an inconsistent piercing, pulses through his head as he takes impossibly deep and feverous breathes to calm himself.  
A moment passes, and the room smells of sweat, chemicals, and coffee. He closes his eyes, all of them, as he tries to stand from his desk. That was most certainly a bad idea. Squinting his eyes, he reaches to the stack of paperwork and fiddles with the pen he had dropped before. Scrawling letters, shaky and unsure, print a note to his intern on top of the script, requesting that they finish up for the night in leave of his sudden absence. His hands fiddled with the dials and buttons of the equipment near him, powering them down for the night as their red and green lights fade to black. Snatching his bag from the floor, which creaked with each movement, he shoved in the few personal items from his desk; a small journal, a pen or two, the cellphone charger he had used during the show. The items are stuffed into his satchel haphazardly, not a care to their arrangement as his head continues to throb.  
Unsteady feet stumble across the studio, and with the flip of a final switch, the ceiling light turns off. The studio is, by far, the most decently managed room in the entire building, so the dimness of the hallway is a saving grace to his vision. The pale blue and white of the rest of the building reminds him vaguely of a hospital, though that observation is unimportant. The cobwebs that graze the halls are a normal sight, including the large figures of silk that hang in them close to the high ceilings. Muffled sobs echo from above, and he looks up at them with disinterest...and fear.  
Station management tended to deal with problems among staff in a way that made him shudder, yet he sent a weak smile up to the figures in encouragement.  
“Hang in there!” He whispers, showing them a thumbs up as he passes by them.  
The figures are not appreciative. They cry louder.  
He exits the building without paying much attention to anything else, wishes the receptionist a goodnight, and steps into the streets of his beloved town. His footsteps are blanketed in lamp light, the night sky an array of deep purples and twinkling stars. He has missed the spectacular sunset, a tragedy for the radio host. He does enjoy sunsets, and this one had been beautiful, he could feel it. The night air was stagnant and hot, as if the sun had sucked all motion from everything it had touched during the day, and all he was left with now was the collective stillness of its aftermath.  
The drive home is silent except for the radio playing softly in his car, which is broadcasting a collection of 70’s disco music to fill the static. The beat doesn’t help his head, but it gets his mind away from the odd circumstance that had put it there. The drive is a short one, as his apartment is at a halfway point between the station and his husband’s scientific lab. The car stops on the side of the street, dark due to the lack of street lamps in this part of town, no matter how many people ask city council for at least one. The city council has seen no need for one, as curfew made sure residents had no need to exit their homes after 9pm.  
The green tinged clock on his car’s stereo beams a soft indication of how long he has until he could be punished for breaking curfew.  
It is 8:57.  
Grabbing his bag roughly, he quickly plants his feet to the sidewalk, locking his car in the process. A long pole that could’ve been mistaken for a streetlamp rises from a circular hole in the sidewalk next to him, and he hears the distinct sound of a camera lens zooming closer behind him. A hesitant smile stretches across his face as he begins to pull out his keys from his pocket, turning to the bushes that are planted in front of his building. He jingles the keys in front of them semi enthusiastically, hearing the lens zoom out as he rushes to the door.  
The lobby is well lit for this time of night, though the building’s owner is nowhere to be seen, and given the time it was no surprise. A glance to the clock hanging above the elevator alludes to how closely he is skidding by town curfew. No time to spare, he books it to the elevator, punching the upwards arrow.  
Before he is able to insert the key into his door, it opens, and he is roughly pulled inside. The hands that are wrapped around his shirt buttons are nimble, yet strong from years of gripping beakers and other science stuff. As soon as the hands are at his chest, they are gone, and the door behind them both shuts loudly.  
The man in front of him is a figment of all the wonderful things in his life, complete with perfect hair and sets of perfect teeth. The man’s eyes, which glint in the dim light of the apartment, are windows into his very human soul; the radio host was always very appreciative of how honest those eyes were, even now.  
“Cecil!” The other man hisses, placing his hands on the radio host’s shoulders, “Where have you been? I tried calling but you didn’t pick up!”  
The feeling of his husband’s hands grounds him as the pulsing in his mind begins to fade. The worry in his beautiful eyes is a little less pleasant,though.  
“Did you?” Cecil reaches into his satchel, pulling out the device in question. It is cold in his hand, and he fiddles with the power button only to find a blinking red battery icon lighting his screen, “Sorry, honey, I guess my phone didn’t charge at the station…” He sighed, placing the device back in his bag.  
“At least you’re okay,” Carlos says, removing his hands from the other’s shoulders, “I was about to call the sheriff’s just in case you stayed past curfew,” He smiles, but it’s not friendly, it’s smug as he teases the other man, “Lucky I was here to pull you inside on time”  
Cecil, eyes tired and grin weak, chuckles at him. His voice is soft, almost hoarse from all the news he had to report today, yet it pitches slightly as he speaks, like how a young lover recites poetry to their dearest.  
“Where would I be without you?” The question is rhetorical, but knowing Carlos, he’s likely to give a calculated answer. However, no matter what Carlos says, Cecil knows exactly where he’d be, but that is a reality he doesn’t have the energy to think of at present.  
As predicted, the scientist playfully places a finger to his cheek, lightly tapping it for emphasis. His smile, though groggy, is nothing but loving as he speaks to his husband.  
“Oh, probably in the city jail by now, wondering how you would get out of another rough scrape,” He teases lightly, eyes widening slightly as they catch sight of the slight sheen on his husband’s face, “Speaking of scrapes, are you okay? You look...unwell.”  
“I’m fine-” Cecil answers, far quicker than he meant to, a knee jerk response to the question, before he catches himself. They are a couple, and he knows Carlos is going to figure it out eventually, he is a scientist after all, “Just a little mix up at work today, no biggie”  
Carlos’ face contorts into an expression Cecil knows well, his eyes squint and the magnificent face he adores turns sceptical.  
“Are you sure, Cecil?” He asks, backing further into their apartment towards their couch, “If you need help, I’m always here for you, you know that.”  
The radio host is exhausted, and sits down on the antique plush of the sofa. He sinks into it, a tender heaven in comparison to the hard seat of his chair at the station. His eyes - most of them - close as he sits, and arms reach out for the slightly smaller man. He soon feels a weight against his side, the fuzzy fabric of his husband’s pajama lab coat rubbing against the smooth satin of his own vest.  
“Can I ask you something?”  
“Of course”  
He lets his mind wander, avoiding the thought of the inscription that had caused his migraine.  
“Do I own any rings?” He asks, squeezing his husband’s shoulder for a moment as an afterthought, “Besides the obvious” he added.  
Carlos thought for a moment, unaware of what hung in the balance based on his answer.  
“You barely own any jewelry, so I don’t think so” He said, before letting out a quiet yawn, “At least, none that I’ve seen”  
“That’s strange…” Cecil responds, his eyes still closed, growing even heavier with each word, “Because I’m wearing another ring right now” He held up his hand weakly for Carlos’ inspection, who took his hand with a gossamer touch, “Careful, I got a headache just from reading it”  
“That’s...weird” Carlos drawls, running a finger over the copper ring on the radio host’s hand. It was cold, and worn in a way metals typically don’t react. Odd. “It just...appeared?”  
“I mean, I guess so. I don’t remember putting it on”  
“You could come to the lab tomorrow, maybe run some tests” He continued, “There’s not a lot to experiment on around the lab, so you can come with me, if you want.”  
Silence.  
He glances down at the ‘human’ who is now sleeping next to him, head lolling against the faded blue of their couch. He smiles, placing a hand on Cecil’s cheek, tapping it lightly. An eye, though sluggish, opens for him.  
“Come on, Radio Star, let’s get you to bed” Carlos yawns, pulling his husband and himself to their feet, to stumble across the living room to their shared bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im gonna be honest with y'all i have no idea how to get ao3 to let me indent my paragraphs. Please bare with me while i figure it out.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning often brings Cecil a cheerful disposition, and today is no different. The sun peels over furniture as it rises into the desert sky, and the usual sound of raccoons snarling fills him with hope for the new day. 

His show doesn’t start until later that night, the station doesn’t expect him until noon, so his morning is wide open. Back in their bedroom, Carlos still sleeps, as he is not needed at the lab until 9, and it is merely 8. Though, in the kitchen, the radio is playing softly, a song by The Mountain Goats humming through the speakers. He takes a glance to the window, where they are currently growing a haphazard selection of wildflowers and herbs, a state mandated camera peeking in from its spot in the window box. Forcing a polite smile, he raises a mug of coffee in it’s direction, and continues his morning, scribbling down an entry into the journal he had packed up last night. 

On a plate across from him sits a collection of Carlos’ usual breakfast, sunny side up eggs on toast with a sprinkle of some gelatinous orange ooze he keeps in the fridge, though Cecil is unable to remember what he calls it. A mug of coffee is placed next to it, a deathly coolness that is close to ice cream. Cecil could never understand the appeal of iced coffee, as it is a disgrace to the way coffee is meant to be enjoyed, but he made it anyway. It isn’t often that they get to spend mornings together, as Carlos is usually the first one awake to get an early start on lab reports, or Cecil leaves ridiculously early to chat with citizens and catch news worthy gossip for his show. Today, however? An adventure awaits.   
Startling him from his thoughts, an alarm sounds from the bedroom, along with a tired scientist’s groans. He hears the domestic sounds of married life take place as he sips his drink, which is cooling rapidly. The faint scrubbing of Carlos’ toothbrush at work, then the slow pumps and brushing of his hair care routine at work, all of it filling Cecil with a spark of something sweet. 

They haven’t been married for long, maybe a year, but he doubts even now that he would ever get tired of living with Carlos; of loving him. 

“Carlos,” He calls gently, but not a shout, as they have neighbors who can be quite sensitive to loud noises, “I made you breakfast” 

The familiar flick of the bathroom light sounds, as well as the thumps of footsteps into the kitchen. He looks up from the journal in front of him, his hand stills and the coffee in his throat nearly lurches forward at the sight of the scientist, who is dressed extravagantly for work. 

His hair is it’s normal lovable mess, but a neatly pressed lab coat is fitted against his frame, very different from the wrinkled mess he would wear every other day. Beneath it, the Nightvale Broadcasting Station’s logo gleans through in it’s signature purple and magenta, tucked into a pair of black slacks, bedazzled with designs of beakers and safety goggles in dollar store rubies and sapphires. His shoes, clear heeled, 2 inch platforms, holds a fake fish inside, dressed in its own tiny lab coat and goggles.   
He had never looked better. 

“I decided to dress up since you’re coming to work with me.”

Cecil’s own attire speaks for itself. 

A raincoat, decorated with the cheerful faces of cute octopi and stars adorns his shoulders, a plain black shirt peers out from under it, brown denim jeans tucked into bright red, sparkling boots that crawl up his thigh, a stiletto-like heel jutting out from it. Very sharp. 

Carlos sits at the table, folding the prim white sleeves of his lab coat to his elbows in order to avoid tarnishing them. Cecil watches him comfortably devour his meal, his husband’s wide mouth of perfect teeth shining in the morning light.

They talk sweet nothings over breakfast, rinse the dishes, and prepare for the day. 

The streets of Nightvale are bustling with activity on this brilliant dawn, the neon of ‘open’ signs contrasting with the violet twilight. In the distance, a certain cloud throbs with color, an indistinct rain of...objects(?) falling to the desert sands below. The scrublands, spotted with shack-like homes about it, is dark cacti and spikes of dry bushes, still wet with the concept of dew on it’s bare stems. Early on such a morning, a helicopter hums in the sky overhead, and the street's humdrum turns silent for an instant. Until they look up, that is. The pale blue of the Sheriff’s Secret Police, blending in with the sunlit clouds, flies in it’s usual jaggid pattern. 

“I’ll drive!” Carlos insists, sliding across the car’s hood to reach the driver’s seat before Cecil. His small grin, of fangs and pointed teeth, stretches over his features, a twinkle in his eyes as he does. He lands pointedly on his platforms, opening the car door with a flourish as he does. 

“You seem...excited” The radio host comments with a gentle smile, entering the car like a normal person. 

Cecil tosses him the keys as he sits, and he lets out a breath of a giggle. The jingle of the keys hits his hand causes him to grow silent as his grip tightens; but his grin does not. 

“Sorry,”He begins, “I guess I am, you haven’t been to the lab in a while, though I wish it was on better circumstances”

“Yeah,” Cecil scrunches his lips as the car starts, thinking of the ring that had suddenly appeared on his hand the previous night, before shaking off the thought in favor of another, “Whatever, it’s cute when you’re like this” 

Carlos rolls his eyes, he's heard his husband's flattery time and time again, but can't help the blush rising to his cheeks. He is silent, but not from tension or embarrassment or awkwardness. Simply because Carlos doesn't know how to respond to flattery. 

The car buzzes along the road, with Cecil gazing out of the window, waving slightly to friends throughout town. Their faces are blank, but they force the idea of smiles towards him, and he appreciates their effort at a wave back. 

A building of tan brick juts out on the street corner, a brass plaque claims it as the Official Nightvale Laboratory/ Observatory, which makes sense given the rows of kiddie telescopes standing on the roof. Very scientific. 

Carlos opens the door to the lab, and smoke instantaneously spills out like a fog. It wraps around Cecil's head and fills his nose, making him cough on reflex. The many eyes that blink and mold on his body faze in levels of opacity as the smoke blurs the supposed body others have come to know him by. 

Carlos, however, is thrilled. The smoke billows through his hair, caresses his lab coat as he holds the door open. It smells of palm oil and burnt hair, a great surprise to the scientist.   
"I didn't know you guys had anything planned today!" He calls into the building, leading Cecil behind him. 

The smoke clears as they enter, to find several people in lab coats and gloves standing over a bunsen burner and a bag of chips. One of them pipes up, not looking up from the melting navy of the Cool Ranch Doritos currently burning.

“We don’t,” A scientist pokes at the bag with a pipet, “We’re making a snack” 

The pipet squeezes out the same ichor that Carlos ate with his eggs, the charred Doritos dissolving partially onto a plate held by another gloved scientist. Cecil glances to his husband, who happens to be more in his element than he had ever seen him; it was honestly quite cute. 

“Well, get ready, because I have quite the anomaly for us to observe today” 

The assistants shift their view to Cecil before quickly looking up at Carlos, uninterested. 

“Is it your husband? Because based on your research-” 

“NO, IT’S NOT-” Carlos interjects, before awkwardly clearing his throat, “Cecil, if you would” 

The radio host holds up his hand to the onlookers, the copper ring gleaming in the light. The green layer of patina he had scratched the previous night covers it once more, bits of the auburn metal peaking through. The assistants instantly move towards him, looking at the ring with hungry curiosity. One swiftly deduces a conclusion with a sigh, their voice articulating their words clearer than one normally would. 

“Sir, this is Verdigris. It’s commonly found on weathered copper or brass.” 

“Yes,I know, I know that,” Carlos says, “but this particular ring is most unusual, tell them Cecil” He adds. 

“Well,” The radio host begins, thinking back to the experience he had before leaving work the day prior, “I didn’t put it on, I don’t even own it...It just...appeared while I was doing paperwork last night, and now it won’t come off” 

This is met with an ensemble of ‘hmm’s and ‘oh’s from the young team, a glance is shot between them, every face sharing the same atypical inquirious expression of raised eyebrows, bright eyes, and crooked, smug smiles. 

It is not long before Cecil has his hand sterilized and stuck in a contraption to keep it steady. Carlos is silently using a wooden cuticle scraper to push the verdigris from the metal, picking up the jade substance with tweezers and placing it in a small clear petri dish. The dish is then taken by a member of the team, who separates it into several other dishes, each with a different liquid in it. Cecil watches them work, looking at the dishes with a large microscope and recording the results on a clipboard. He was impressed by the well oiled machine that was the team of young scientists, who he had just seen melting a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos for lunch, all of them working tirelessly on just the patina alone.

“...And there we go!”’ Carlos says, scraping the last of the substance off the ring, proud of his work, “now we just need to decide what language this is-”

“Carlos,wait-” Cecil warns, but it is too late. 

Carlos stares feverishly at the scratchy runes. His eyes, the same color as the ring, go wide. His wonderfully soft hands, now covered in stretchy blue latex, brush over the metal.  
His nail traces the pattern. Carlos’ mouth is a hard line.

No sweat. No noticeable migraine. Nothing. 

He is still for a while, and the lab is quiet except for the clinks and clicks of equipment at work. A magnifying lens is pulled from a lab coat pocket, and he hums a tune as he does, like a pediatrician hums in presence of a scared child. It comforts Cecil only slightly. 

A linguist is called, but there is no language to decipher, or atleast, one that they know. 

Cecil is transferred to machine after machine, the ring being glazed over by red and green lasers, a screen nearby graphing data as the process continues. His throat is swapped for a reason Carlos does not explain. Wires are connected to his body, and the scientists write down on their respective clipboards as they stare at the ensemble of screens. One displays medical information that Cecil recognizes from his various trips to the hospital; his heart beat pulses steadily as a white line in the center of the display, his blood pressure carefully monitored off to the side. A black computer details information on his neurotransmitters as they try to pry the ring from his finger. His heart beats fast as the experiments continue, and this is written down. 

“Alright, Cecil” Carlos coos, removing the wires tenderly from his husband’s skin, careful to not hurt any of the eyes, which are squeezed shut as they form and dissolve, “That’s all for right now, the results will be ready later today” 

Two of Cecil’s eyes open, peering up at the scientist, who’s mouth of perfectly unsettling teeth welcomes him back into a sense of normalcy within the strange laboratory.   
“And since you were so cooperative, you get a present” Carlos places a lollipop in the other’s hand, who gladly accepts it. 

The radio host is escorted to the door, lollipop in hand, in an odd daze from the experiments performed. He is not physically tired, as he had felt last night, but mentally drained from hearing scientific chatter fill his thoughts throughout the morning. 

With a kiss and a wave, he is sent away. 

He spends the majority of his time in the streets of the humble desert community, talking with shop owners and other residents. His ex-intern, Maureen, stops sweeping her girlfriend’s store front, Dark Owl Records, to scowl at him. He is happy to see her in a good mood. 

The inevitable rolls in far faster than he expects, and he begins walking to the station. 

He pays no mind to the daily commotion of Nightvale, sucking on the lollipop as he walks, his legs moving in structured memory without his own directions to guide them. He has walked to the station in the past, whether it be for one reason or another, and yet he is still impressed of his robotic trek to his home away from home. 

The lollipop melts in his mouth, a candied tarantula landing onto his tongue as the sweetness slinks down his throat. The treat helps him clear his head, no longer bogged down by thoughts of scientific study or the ring that still hangs on his hand. 

Cecil pushes open the door of the station without much thought, the glare of the noontime sun flashes off the glass, the twinkling of bells sounding as he enters.   
The air is damp and humid with the heat of intern tears, and it sticks to his skin. Breathing feels like drinking, refreshing from the arid conditions of the small desert town. 

Now all he has to do is work as normal.

No problem. 

Totally fine.

He nods to the receptionist, who waves in response, busy knitting with an impossibly thin thread bunched around each of her index fingers and the blood red spikes of nails that shot off of them. A sweet girl, really. 

His heels clack against the pristine white floors, the only sound to be heard from the hallways of the station. The moans are especially quiet today, and an accidental glance skyward tells Cecil that the punished workers are still sleeping in their silken tombs. He wonders if it's comfortable up there, definitely easier than his own job. 

He reaches a heavy door he knows so well, the wood splintering near the handle that feels like a loving invitation. A gentle smile graces his face, pushing open the door without much thought, met with the smell of cleaning supplies and coffee. 

It smelled the same as it did everyday, as it had for years since he had first begun interning at the public radio station. It puts his jittering mind at ease in a way that is automatic and involuntary, and he is thankful for it. 

Standing at his desk is an intern who's name is lost in Cecil's head, shuffling papers into a manila folder, a rainbow of tabs sticking out from it. The intern turns to him, and the file is passed to him with little care. He nods to the intern, and walks into the recording booth. 

On the table is a cup of coffee, exactly how Cecil likes it; dark and sweet. His bag thunks to the floor as he sits, a few eyes skimming over his script once more, a few last minute edits written in by his intern the night prior. The interns he had changed by the week, and though he was always sad for their family's loss when one went missing, he wished they all would've put as much effort in as this one. 

The headphones fit snug against him, and the neon lights of the studio twinkle amidst the somewhat dark room. 

It feels like home. Before his marriage, before his niece's birth, before it all...there was the radio station. A place, a room, where Cecil's heart(s) beat in time with everything else, a humble static that filled the air so thickly it crunched with every movement. 

"We're going live," The intern says into his headphones from their own microphone outside the booth, "in 5…" 

He swallows a last gulp of coffee, with a tad too much haste, as it burns his throat going down. Not unpleasant, but not soothing. 

"...4…" 

Cecil clears his throat, holds the folder in front of him like a diary, a pen gripped in his hand. 

"...3…" 

He doodles on the page, comfortable beyond belief. He has done this every day for...how many years has it been again? 

"...2.." 

No matter. It's time for his world to begin again. 

His voice flows like he wishes to sing, melodic and in time with a beat that no one else can hear. 

"The clouds rise, they rise, so high above us. What are you to them? What are we to them, who float so far above the heavens we can not hear them?" 

The short statement is an excerpt from his own personal diary, as they always are. 

His smile widens, and he can hear it in his own voice. 

"Welcome...to Nightvale"


End file.
